Starlight
by kalabangsilver
Summary: Harry, Ruth, and some starlight...


_A/N - Not sure what came over me... this started out as something much darker and became a ball of blatant AU fluff. For want of a better explanation, I blame the silly, romantic film I watched on the tele last night. =s Anyway, my thanks to everyone who has reviewed my other pieces and more thanks, in advance, to everyone who reviews this. Your comments truly are appreciated. All my best,_

_Silver_

_._

_Starlight_

.

It is late, nearly midnight, and the purple of the early night sky has given way to shades of darkest blue, speckled with hundreds of stars. Staring up into it, Harry heaves a heavy sigh. His body is weary. He has had a long day, followed by a long drive down, from the city, to the doorstep of this little house. The journey takes nearly three hours on a good day, with good traffic, and the traffic today has been nothing short of horrendous. Still, he is here now, he thinks, with a yawn. And an extra few hours in his sanctuary is worth those he spent trapped in the driver's seat.

Harry gives another long yawn. He has been standing outside for some time, now. His feet, bare on the grass, are growing cold, despite the unseasonable warmth of the night. It is almost Easter, but the weather is more like that of early summer. The air is balmy, with only a hint of chill when the wind blows. Behind the house, a few trees stand swaying in it, their shadows darker spots on an already dark horizon. Between their branches glitter the pinpoints of a thousand stars.

You cannot see the stars in London, Harry thinks, not like this. This little house, his little house, is a place of refuge from the city. There are no burning lights here, no hum and roar of cars to disturb his thoughts. Here, Harry can stand and stare at the sky to his heart's content, trying to pick out her face amongst them.

Ruth, he smiles, it is always Ruth.

Whatever his thoughts fall on, they always come back around to her. It is a strange thing, this love of his. It grows and changes, stretches to meet the horrors of what they have been through together. Yet, through all that, it does not fade.

The pain of being parted from her does not fade either. Lowering his gaze, he focuses on the farthest horizon, above some distant rolling hills. The stars, there, are shrouded in a veil of cloud, looking so much like a picture-book representation of heaven. Harry frowns at it, softly.

He has long abandoned any hope he had of heavens. Such places, after all, would hardly be places for people like him, even if they existed. He does not dream he will go on existing, after his body dies, or see those who he has lost again one day. No matter how many he has lost, his mind has never been swayed, on that front. Harry Pearce does not believe in gods or salvation. He believes in men and that sometimes they can be good. He believes in loyalty and sacrifice and he knows that one day it will be his turn, just like those who came before him.

Harry sighs. It is a day long overdue.

Turning slowly on the spot, he sweeps his gaze around the rim of the horizon and back. The night is so expansive. He remembers hearing, somewhere, that – away from the city, on a clear and moonless night, like this one – you can see close to two thousand stars in the sky with the naked eye. Two thousand, of course, would only be a fraction of their true number. Stretching out into infinite space, there must be far more than any human mind can comprehend. Would mankind know them all, one day? Could he know them all?

Facts, from the documentaries he has watched over the years, come rushing to his mind. None of them quite answer his question. He does not find himself particularly bothered, by this. In fact, quite the contrary, he finds it oddly comforting not to know what is hidden out there, amongst the purple-black folds of sky – comforting, that he does not _have_ to know. When it comes to stars and heavens, Harry Pearce does not need to have the answers.

"Penny for them?"

He jumps a little, at her voice. It carries so clearly through the night air. Strange, he thinks, as he turns, that it is possible to grow completely accustomed to a person and, yet, they can still catch you off-guard. Then again, that was always how it had been, with Ruth. She was never quite what he expected. Not quite as not quite as clumsy, not quite as naïve, a thousand times as beautiful.

Facing her, he gives a shy smile. Though he feels a little guilty at her having stirred from her bed, to come out here and see him, he is incredibly glad to see her face. It has been a long week apart.

"Hello," he greets her quietly, watching as she steps carefully down the patio steps and out across the grass.

"You didn't wake me, when you came in," she replies, almost accusingly.

Her brow is furrowed in a soft frown, her tone not far away from a rebuke. She had been curled up in bed when Harry arrived, fast asleep. Not wanting to wake her, he had slipped quietly back outside, to take in the air before heading to bed. Wrongly, he assumed she would not notice the absence of a greeting.

Such is not the case, however.

"You looked peaceful," he explains, a little sheepishly.

"I was planning to wait up for you," she admits, her reproachful tone dropped, for the moment. She gives a little yawn, a little stretch. "Don't know exactly what happened..."

Harry smiles because he knows. When he had climbed the stairs to her bed, he found her dozing with an open book across her belly. Exhaustion hits hard when you were recovering from surgery, he knows, and it has been no more than a couple of weeks since she was clinging to life by a thread. It does not surprise Harry that Ruth needs more sleep than she used to, even if it surprises her still.

"I was coming back, in just a moment," he assures her.

Glancing back at the little house, she frowns. "According to the alarm, you've been out here for nearly half an hour. What on earth are you doing?"

"Thinking," he answers, with a shrug. "Everything seems clearer, out here."

"Right..."

She comes so stand beside him, a little further up the slope. At their angle, and with the uneven terrain, they are almost the same height. Eyes on level, Ruth regards him with mild curiosity.

"And what exactly have you been thinking about, for the past half an hour?"

A warmth fills him, momentarily. He has been thinking of all sorts of things – stars and mortality, love and time, and how he wants to spend the rest of his life wrapped around her. He does not tell her that, of course. Instead, he answers, diplomatically, "...things."

Ruth leaves an appropriately long and admonishing silence, before raising an eyebrow.

"Are you being purposefully vague?"

A smile trickles across Harry's lips.

"Yes."

Tilting her head back, she looks up at the sky, too.

Harry watches her, revelling in the way that her eyes reflect the lightness of the stars so much more vividly than the darkness of the night behind them. Her arms are folded across her chest, a blanket wrapped around her upper body. On her lower half, she is wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms – his, he thinks. She steals his clothes every now and then. He comes back to the house to find her wrapped in his shirt, wearing his socks, or sleeping in his t-shirt. He never says anything. He sort of likes it. There is something incredibly intimate about her being able to take from him without asking.

"Do you know their names?" she asks, softly.

"Hm?" Torn from his thoughts, Harry cannot immediately remember what they were discussing. Following her eyes to the sky, however, he guesses she means the stars. "Oh, no, not really. A few, perhaps."

He continues to look up at them in silence, for a while. Ruth does the same.

"My father knew all of them," she whispers, eventually. "Well not all of them, I suppose that would be impossible, but many of them. He used to take me outside and we would sit for hours, naming them, sitting on these really uncomfortable camp-chairs."

Harry can imagine it, too. The girl-Ruth, under an expanse of sky, innocence shining in her eyes.

"He knew their stories, too," she adds, pointing to a bright spot, hovering near the treetops. "Mars, the false star; god of war, burning orange." She knows more mythology about Mars, he can tell – from her time spent studying Classics, no doubt – but she does not elaborate, just sweeps her finger onwards, across the dark night sky. "At this time of year, that's Denebola to the left, Regulus to the right and, further up, Algieba."

Voice soft, she continues to make comments on the stars. Harry, to his shame, is not paying attention to a word of it. His brain cannot move past the lilting nuances of her voice.

Beautiful. She is so beautiful. The lamps are lit in the kitchen window and their soft orange light spills out across the grass, across both of them. Lit from the side, Ruth's features are softened. He can almost believe that she is the same woman who walked into his office, all those years ago, to interview for a junior analyst job. He never did tell her, he realises with a smile, that she had outrun the competition by a mile. Overqualified, clever, quietly confident and, of course, beautiful.

Harry had always liked to surround himself with beautiful women. Once upon a time, it had played a major part in his hiring strategy. That old habit had reared its ugly head during his interview with Ruth. He saw something he wanted and thought – as she was perfect for the job, in every other way - why not? Why not allow himself the distraction, just this once? He had never expected what had followed to surpass any of his previous dalliances; the spark, the passion, the burnout and both parties moving shamefacedly on with their lives. It had been what Harry was used to, a quick fuck in a nice hotel and then back to work, pretending nothing had happened. It was what he knew.

It had only taken a few days before he realised that was never going to happen, with Ruth. Ruth was not an easy office romance sort of girl. So, they wound up in a difficult office romance instead – the intense, deep and painful sort, which took the good part of a decade to come to fruition. Though some days he doesn't know how he has survived those years, Harry is still glad that he asked her back for a second interview.

Giving a heavy sigh, Ruth closes her eyes, letting the wind play over her face. Harry cannot stop himself from speaking any longer.

"Ruth?" he says her name softly.

Eyes snapping open, she looks over at him. "Yes?"

"I'm quite madly in love with you."

For the first split second, or so, she looks completely taken aback. Then, possibly remembering it is okay for him to say things like that now, the surprise is replaced with a wash of delight. She tries to hide it, of course – clearing her throat and looking demurely away – but, if it were not so dark, Harry expects he would have been able to see her skin blush pink.

"You're oddly effusive tonight," she mumbles, never one for accepting a compliment in good grace.

"It's the starlight," he tells her, confidentially.

A smile graces her lips, followed by a soft chuckle.

"If only I'd known it was that easy..."

"...you'd have cornered me at night long ago?"

"Perhaps,"

"You wouldn't have," Harry whispers back. "You'd have seen that as somewhat beneath you, using a man's weaknesses against him."

"Perhaps," she repeats, her tone slightly flirtatious, this time.

It is Harry's turn to smile, now. Though flirting is something they rarely do, he enjoys every second of it. They are far too old, know better and all that, but sometimes – usually at night, usually when they are both exhausted – they cannot help but acting like love-struck teens. A tease here, a little look and a taunt there. Before Ruth, it had been a long time since he had flirted with anyone. The lover he had taken, between loves, had been pleasant enough, but none had elicited that pure, hormonal response in him. Flirting with them would have felt stilted and trite. With Ruth, it just feels natural.

Feet brushing through the grass, Harry moves towards her. The ground is soft underfoot, cooler than the patch he has been standing on for the last half an hour. As he moves, Ruth's eyes flicker down to his feet and she frowns to see he is barefoot.

"Harry..." she mutters his name, reproachfully.

"You have my shoes," he steps closer, motioning down to her feet which are, indeed, shoved inside his slippers. Lifting both hands, he cups her jaw. "How can I wear my shoes if you're already wearing them?" He runs one thumb along the swell of her lower lip, prompting her mouth to open slightly.

Beautiful.

"Always an excuse," she breathes, taking a step backwards. Her eyes flicker back and forth between his. They are incredibly intense, dark with pupil, her irises just crescents of ocean blue. She looks as if she can barely keep the want in them from spreading to the rest of her – not that Harry thinks she will try for long. They try not to deny themselves too often, now.

Stepping forwards, he slips into the space which she had created between them, hands reconnecting with her skin. One traces up to her jaw, the other to the strands of hair falling across her cheeks. Memorising their texture, he leans in, brushing a kiss across her forehead. It is not a platonic movement, rather a distinctly possessive one; another thing, like flirting, that they allows themselves to indulge in.

"Do you want them back?" she asks, as he draws his lips away.

Distant light falls into the space between them, again, outlining her features. Stars shine, once more, in her eyes.

Harry wonders how many of their names she knows.

"What back?" he asks, not quite sure why they were even still having a conversation. Words seem moot, at this point. He wants her lips, her body, pressed against his. There is nothing they could say to each other, right now, that actions could not explain a thousand times better.

"Your slippers. Do you want them back?" she tilts her head back, close enough that the movement brings their lips into close proximity. Her hands rise, sliding up to grasp the loose edges of his shirt.

Harry replies says 'yes', because he is fairly sure of where she is going with this.

And sure enough...

"Fine," Kicking them off, she digs her bare toes into the grass, allowing the movement to bring her closer, "take them back." Steadying herself, she tugs the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

Spotting that her hands are otherwise occupied, Harry seizes the moment to lean in and kiss her again – on the lips this time. She responds to his embrace, but only briefly. After no more than a fleeting caress of lips, Ruth draws back and asks whether he wants his pyjamas returned, also. Harry says 'yes' again, because now he is absolutely sure where she is going with this.

"I'll have all of my belongings back," he tells her.

They kiss again, harder and more demanding. Her face remains close once they have finished, her harsh breaths hot against his skin.

"All of them?" she asks.

"All of them," he replies.

"Fine."

Stepping back, she stands on the hem of her trousers, lifting each of her legs free, in turn. Harry watches, wondering briefly whether the delicate movement is something she has learned through practice. He turns his mind quickly from the matter, however. Thoughts of _his_ Ruth undressing for another man tended to fill him with a strange mixture of anxiety and overpowering rage. Such emotions disappear almost instantly, however, as she lets the fabric pool to the floor around her feet.

Harry watches raptly. All that covers her, now, is the blanket wrapped around her shoulders and it is hardly long. It hangs to just above her knee. Her very naked knee.

"Have I mentioned, before, how much I enjoy your legs?" he asks her, distractedly.

"Only once."

"Really?" he is honestly surprised by this. "Only once?"

"Only once."

"Well, regardless, I hope you know I was being sincere."

She squirms a little. "It was all rather mid-coital, so I wasn't sure whether or not to believe you."

He laughs out loud. She is so very Ruth, so deliciously delicate about the matter. He resolves to comment on her legs more often. She is so beautiful, standing there in the starlight, her eyes flashing, her fingers tightening around the hem of her blanket. As her hair dances around her shoulders, a few strands fly loose and blow over her forehead and cheeks. Underneath them, her eyes look even more vividly blue. A little overcome with the need to feel her again, Harry reaches out his hand. Ruth steps away from him, however, biting her lower lip.

"What on Earth were you thinking about, out here?" she asks, softly.

Always the analyst, always questioning.

Harry shrugs. "I was just..." he looks around them, as if searching for some explanation. When none comes, and he realises resistance is futile, he heaves a sigh and tells her the truth. "I was being quite sentimental, really."

"Us, then?" she says, quietly.

"Yes." Clearing his throat, he looks away.

A moment passes in strange silence.

"What about us?" Ruth asks, eventually.

"How long it took us, to get here."

"We're not that far from the city," she quips lightly.

"You know what I mean..."

A smile.

"I know, Harry."

The way she says his name has always made his resolve melt, just a little. Now her eyes hook him firmly to the spot. Looking down as she reaches towards him, the touch of her hand still comes as a surprise – as it does often, though they have lived together for more than a month, now. Fingers twining into his, she pulls him closer and, burying her face into his shoulder, lets their bodies fall together.

His arms wrap around shoulders, hers around his waist. The sudden warmth of proximity makes them realise how chilled the wind has become.

"I don't regret any of it, you know," she whispers, softly.

He can feel her lips move, through the thin fabric of his shirt, feel her fingertips tighten against his back. All the teasing is gone from her tone, now, all joking put aside. She does not regret anything and there is nowhere else on earth that he would rather be.

"Not the lies, or the secrets, or stab wounds?"

"No. Besides," she draws her head back, to meet his eyes. "I'm almost healed."

Harry wants to say he will never be. The memory of her lying there, bleeding in his arms, is still enough to cool his entire body. It stilled him, mid-thought, sometimes and he would telephone her at home, from the office, just to hear her voice. They had come so close to being torn apart, for good, and he will never be healed of that – just like he will never be healed of the other things he has seen. He wants to say it aloud, but holds his tongue.

He does not need to tell her. She already knows. And she is here for him anyway.

For him.

_With_ him.

"Harry?" She waits until he responds, looking back into her eyes, before lifting her warm lips to his cheek and placing a soft kiss there. "I love you."

A flash of warmth thrills through him. He knows, of course, but he never tires of hearing it. Sometimes, he even engineers a moment between them, simply to hear her say it again – just to make sure he had not imagined it, the times before. Most often, Ruth spots the moment coming and shirks out of saying it, in some way. That was just Ruth, though, not particularly good at expressing herself. He can hardly comment, he is quite the same. Besides, it took them nearly three years to kiss and another four to say that they could imagine a life with each other. Two months is really quite reasonable, he thinks, for her to volunteer those three words without his prompting.

It pleases him immensely.

They stand for a while, clinging onto one another – unable to bear the thought of moving, even to get in, out of the cold. Her bare leg brushes his clothed one. She adjusts the blanket around her shoulders.

"You must be freezing," he whispers to her, kissing the side of her head.

"Incredibly," she looks up at him, "I'm not wearing anything underneath this."

They stare at one another for a split second, and then the tension in the air is shattered by his bark of laughter. Hers follows quickly, soft and as light as the stars shining in her eyes.

"Really?" he asks,

"Really."

As she nudges back against his arms, he loosens them and she steps free of their embrace. Giving him one last long look, she turns her back and walks away towards the house. As a rule, he tries not to rush her, but he cannot help but step eagerly after her, now. By the time she reaches the back door, he has followed her footsteps halfway across the garden, picking up his discarded slippers and pyjama bottoms on the way. She watches him fondly, biting at her lower lip.

Though he is still perplexed at how something as beautiful as his lover could be drawn to something as broken as himself, Harry welcomes the attention. Never turn away from the good things – it is a lesson he learned rather late in life. Not too late, however.

"I thought I was getting all my things back," he calls over and she frowns. Harry motions towards the blanket, wrapped around her soft shoulders. "If I remember correctly, that is mine too."

She raises an eyebrow, smirk growing around her lips.

"Really?" she asks.

"Really."

He steps closer.

She glances very subtly over at their nearest neighbours windows; a house a couple hundred metres away. The lights are out. The hour is late, after all. Clearly deciding that the risk of being observed at being a blatant flirt was outweighed by the benefits of being a blatant flirt, she lets the blanket slip free from her shoulders. Then, very slowly – purposefully slowly – she lets it fall down past her breasts, her navel, her hips, and down to the patio floor.

Harry's eyes never quite make it to the patio floor.

She is beautiful, her skin delightfully pale in the starlight. Her hair appears darker than usual against it. The edge of her hip is sharp. He is a little worried that she has lost weight, since she had been in hospital. Still, he can see that she is healing well. The soft pink curve of her scar barely shows. The skin around it is smooth.

Lifting his eyes to her face he tries to maintain some form of composure and pretend that a woman he is incredibly attracted to has not just stripped herself naked in his back garden, and he is not incredibly turned on.

"Satisfied?" she asks, tilting her head.

"Not nearly."

She can probably see his throat bob, as he swallows. Still, he keeps his face straight.

"Can I coax you inside in any way?" she asks.

She sounds calm, despite having been standing naked in his doorway for almost a minute, now. Harry is secretly surprised she has held out this long. For a shy girl, Ruth is doing very well at being bold.

"You could try, I suppose." he tries to sound nonchalant.

Giving him one last smile, she turns and heads inside.

From the garden, he watches her shadow move smoothly across the kitchen, flitting like a shadow against the golden-orange light – flitting like a spook, he rephrases, inside his head. She is a born spook. Quiet on reflex, bold when she needs to be, clever and careful always. He is unendingly proud of the woman she has become. A strong, beautiful woman; his strong, beautiful woman. His Ruth. It has been such a long time coming, to call her 'his'.

Feet falling silent on the grass, he follows her to the door, stepping into the warmer air and shutting the heavy wood behind him. Its paint is really peeling, now. They're going to have to do something about it, eventually, despite his sentimental lover being loathe to spoil its character.

He continues inside, through the kitchen, his bare feet make resounding noise against the exposed wooden floorboards. Further inside the house, Ruth is climbing the stairs. They creak softly under her steps. Padding down the hall, he can hear her reach the top and the sound of her making her way to their bedroom. It's her bedroom, really, he has his own space, further along the corridor. He never sleeps there, though. They spend most of their time together, when they are here.

Harry climbs the stairs, trying to remember what it was like before he knew her – before his world was consumed with the need to be beside her. He cannot. It is like his life has been separated into distinct stages and, apart from the most important bits, events which happened before Ruth do not seem to matter so much anymore.

The bedroom is dark when he reaches it, but he can see her sides, milky pale against the darker sheets. Leaning against the door frame, he watches her for a while.

"How many more places do I have to strip, before you'll come to bed?" her voice calls out, from the shadows.

He chuckles, but does not reply.

"Come here," she tries again.

Slowly, unbuttoning the top few buttons on his shirt, he paces towards her. "I thought you were tired?"

"Tired, not dead," she states, with a smile that he can almost hear.

He walks to her side. She rolls over on her back. The sheets are wrapped around her, in the dark. He can see the outline of her hip, her breasts, and that of an erect nipple, just beneath the hand that lay across her chest. Once again he wonders what he has ever done to deserve something as young and beautiful as she, and he tells her as much.

She frowns, softly, at his words.

"You still have no idea, do you?" Sitting up she reaches out, pulling him towards her, one hand at his side, the other unbuckling his belt as he continues to work on his shirt. "It's not about deserving, Harry. I don't think either of us deserves to be happy, after all we've done." He is about to protest, but she overrides his quiet words. "People like us were never meant for happy endings, but we're here together, now." Pulling the buckle free, she moves forwards, leaning up on her knees. "That's a good thing,"

He cannot help but wholeheartedly agree, with that assessment.

"Definitely a good thing," he nods.

"Don't take it for granted."

"I don't."

A moment passes.

Ruth lifts one hand to his cheek and whispers "I love you", almost too soft for him to hear. "I should say it more," she runs a thumb over his jaw, scrutinising the lines of his face with a very serious expression. "Just in case."

He feels a stab of pain at that. It is unfair, this life they lead. His lover should not have to worry that each night might be their last, together. It is a terrible weight to place upon her shoulders. In three months, however, it will no longer be her burden to bear. In three months, Harry's notice will be served and he is leaving the service, on good terms.

Knowing what can happen in three months, Harry is not completely put to ease by this, but he supposes it is a compromise. If it had been up to him, he would have walked away the morning he found out she was going to recover from surgery – the morning he found out there might be a chance at a life together. It was Ruth who made him promise to stay, to take the time and finish what he started. She told him that she did not want him to leave the Service with any regrets and he will honour her request. He will serve his notice. It is only three months, after all.

Three months seems a long time, however, when he is in London and Ruth is far from his side. Still, he supposes it is better than the alternative. The last thing he wants is for them to start out with regret between them, for whatever reason. Ruth wants him to walk out with his head held high, so that is what he intends to do. Even if it means making the pair of them a little miserable, in the short run.

"I wish you wouldn't worry about me," he chides her, though he knows it is useless. "I'll be fine, I always am."

"Old habit," she tells him in reply, eyes flashing fondly through the dark.

"It's only a few more months," he reminds her.

"I know," she smiles as she undoes the last of his shirt buttons, sliding her hands down his chest. Her palms are warm. He can feel the gentle scrape of her fingernails, against him. "It will be nice, next week, when we are working in the same city again. I can come see you,"

"That sounds a little too much like work, to me..."

"Then you could come to me,"

He cringes at the thought of going to the Home Office, recreationally.

She laughs.

"We could meet, then,"

"Lunch?"

She smiles. "Something like that."

A moment passes and her fingers spread out, their tips trailing down his sides, down to the waistband of his trousers before lifting back up. She repeats the movement, slowly, lightly, barely there and yet tantalisingly steady. Harry feels his heart rate hike up a couple notches. His skin feels suddenly tight. Ruth's lips curl into a shy smile and, though she lowers her eyes from his, her movements grow even lighter across him. Teasing.

He likes it. She knows.

"I'm getting a proper office, you know," she informs him, running her thumbs in half-arcs just below his hips. Her eyes are playful. "William told me on the phone, earlier."

"Ah, so its _William,_ now, is it?"

"Well, he is my boss."

"Hm..."

It feels strange, to hear her give his title away to another man. If he was a lesser man, Harry would have been jealous. Never mind, he is a lesser man and he _is_ jealous. William fucking Towers is Ruth's boss; it doesn't seem right.

"Anyway, it's a real office," she continues. "Four walls, carpet, window."

"Bloody hell, Ruth," he intones, in mock indignance, "even I don't have a window!"

She ignores him, continuing. "I even have a desk. It's lovely. You should come and see it, once I move in."

"See your desk?"

She chuckles. Her fingers trace the line of hair down from his navel to his waistband. Trying to appear like he was vaguely in control, Harry takes the lead, slipping his hands up her sides. Fingers curling around her ribs, he reels her in against him. The points at which their bodies touch become sources of intense heat. Tension creeps in, first across his skin and then, trickling deeper, into his belly. Hot, liquid warmth. Want. Lust.

Reaching forwards, Harry slides his hands around his lover's sides, wrists brushing the swell of her breasts in the process. Warm skin against warm skin – the pair of them shudder momentarily. They have been together for almost a month, but such blatant sexual contact has far from lost its illicit thrill. His throat is tight, skin prickling heatedly with the excitement of it all. Whispering her name, he draws her closer, feeling her body tighten in response. Breathing quickening, her eyes grow dark and playful, her lips parting to form almost-words.

She wants him. He knows.

The fingers on his right hand, situated on the back of her ribcage, can feel her heartbeat soar beneath her skin. Soon, he thinks with a smile, it will nearly match his own.

Harry suspects it might well be dangerous, the speed at which his heart thunders against his ribs. After all, he is not a young man any more. One of these days, his lover's delicate hands will most probably be the death of him. He can honestly think of no way he would rather go, however. So, he leans in closer and takes her lips once more in his.

The room around them is small enough to be intimate in the half-light. Only a bed, a simple chest of drawers and a mirror decorate it. It is quite bare, almost Spartan, but for a few little things – her books near the bed, his tie hung over the edge of the mirror. They've not lived here long, yet. As the years pass, it will become more homely, Harry is sure. The advantage of the room, however, is the view. Overlooking the back garden and the fields behind it, the scene outside their window is one of uninterrupted rolling fields. There are no neighbours in sight, nobody to watch them, nobody to see. Harry leaves the curtains parted, often. Sometimes, when the weather is nice enough, they even draw the sash down and let the evening in.

Tonight is one of those nights. Balmy, almost-cool air bathes the two lovers as they move across each other, inthe dark. Dipping in to kiss, they move lazily, making idle chat about Ruth's new office and thinly-veiled flirtations about uses for her new office furniture. Ruth continues to trace her fingers down Harry's stomach, down into the shallows formed by his hip bones. Harry continues to swallow and shift, trying to lessen the effect she has on him though it is becoming rather a moot point.

Placing her palm flat against his groin, she can feel him, hard, and tilts her head back to fix him with her ocean eyes.

"I'm glad you drove down, tonight. I don't know how I would have managed until tomorrow afternoon."

"I'm sure you would have," he murmurs back, leaning in to taste the sweetness of her mouth again. When they part, he slides his face forwards, to lie against hers. Cheek-to-cheek. "We're good at waiting, aren't we?"

"Seven years..."

"Seven years."

He feels her wince against him and chuckles softly. She is right. Seven years is a very long time.

His hands rise to grip her and soon she is laughing, too, soft warm laughter that rings loudly into the night. Their mouths continue to meet, in-between bouts of mirth, kissing hard until the tension between them becomes too much. Then, freeing her hand from his sides, Harry's lover reaches down to slide his trousers free. Boxers too. The clothes fall to the floor, his belt sounding loudly against the hardwood and causing them both to chuckle again. Their amusement lasts only a second this time, however, before she draws his lips to hers and they are absorbed agian in more important matters.

Tongues touch, mouths wet and sweet, and her hand slides between them. It takes a moment to find him, but when she does, she does not hesitate. Stroking her thumb over the swollen head of his erection, she gently positions him between their bellies and pressing forwards again. It is a bit of a low move because it leaves him completely at her mercy, trapped against the stifling heat of her. To her credit, she stills, giving him a moment to recover.

Breathing in deeply, she wraps her arms around his neck again and watches his face. Harry bites down on the inside of his cheek, exhaling slowly. Each of their breaths causes him to slide slightly against her which, in turn, causes his breaths to quicken. It's a game she likes to play. Who lasts longest, who yields first? For her, it is a battle of want; weighing the pleasure of watching him want her against the pleasure he can give her if she lies back and lets him. For Harry, the game is a different sort of battle, one of willpower. It is a struggle not to let sensation overcome everything else and spill himself against her warm, inviting skin.

For a few seconds, he does not move. Instead, he concentrates solely on the stroking of her fingers at the back of his neck and the sound of the wind against the trees outside their window. The slow, repetitive motions ground him, pulling him back from the edge. He counts off seconds – one, two, five, eight – until he reaches ten and the immediacy of his need fades back slightly. Body adjusting to the proximity of hers, his breathing becomes easier. After thirteen seconds, he is calm enough to lean into her, pressing a kiss to her lips. After fifteen, he is the one in control, sliding his thumbs down her sides as she leans hungrily into him.

They move together, almost-swaying.

They trade kisses, taking one, giving another.

As they move, Harry feels the roughness of her scar brush against him and has to remind himself not to pull away. She is nearly healed, he tells himself, and – as she often reminds him, in frustration – she is not made of glass. She wants this. She wants it desperately so, if her quickening touches are anything to go by. So, he obliges, pressing into her, embracing the feel of her half-healed scars against his older ones.

He will never forget the memory of her skin growing cold, beneath his fingertips, but it is a nightmare that revisits fewer nights ever week. Time is no great healer, (Harry has learned that well over the years), but touch can stitch a thousand wounds and Ruth is alive and warm in his arms tonight. It has been a long time since he has felt so free. The past is no longer his prison, the service no longer his idol. He has found a new thing to worship and she is something far more beautiful than the god he left behind.

"Come on,"

Rocking back on her heels, she flops down across the bed, situating herself comfortably before extending a hand – palm up – towards him. Harry follows her down, kicking himself free of his remaining clothes. It does not take them long to find a pace they both find acceptable. During the last few weeks, there have been many nights where their coupling is fast and desperate – nights when they have been parted all week and desires overcome the need for finesse. Tonight is not one of those nights, however. Tonight, it is something softer, gentler. She is a still a little drowsy and he is still feeling a little sentimental over her multiple confessions of love.

It is nearly always his emotional state which sets the tone for their encounters – out of habit, more than anything else. Harry leads, Ruth follows. It is how they have worked for years. It is how they fell together, almost as second nature, within days of meeting one another. They have always fit. Being separated from each other, during the week, has done nothing to lessen that. He still leads and she still follows. It brings a smile to Harry's lips to think it, now, but he knows William Towers will never be her boss in the way that he is.

"Harry?" Ruth's voice catches him and he starts slightly, drawing back from the attention he is paying to her sides and chest, with his lips.

"Hm?"

His lover is looking at him with slightly accusing eyes, though the frown on her forehead is less than sincere. "Will you stop looking so bloody smug," she demands, trying to force her brow to stay knitted together. "It makes me nervous. I have no idea what you're thinking."

"Telepathy at low ebb, this evening, is it?" he teases.

Her gaze narrows slightly.

"Yes."

"I'm gloating," he explains, wondering if there was nothing his lover liked less than not knowing what was going on, behind his eyes – thinking she had made a strange choice in partners, if this was the case. "I think a man is allowed to be a little smug, in my situation."

She mumbles something a little uncomplimentary, about his situation, but Harry does not bother to form a retort. He just continues to look smug and leans forwards, taking his weight on his outstretched arms to brush a kiss across her cheek. Their bellies press together, all hot skin and panting ribs. He is hard against the soft of her. The pleasure causes muscles to twitch, deep in his abdomen.

Her resolve to look cool fades quickly away and soon her hands find his sides again, stroking up him, reaching for his neck as he reaches down for her. One kiss and then another; his hips tilt down, her leg slides up. Hooking over his, she pulls them that last bit closer. They are flush. Hot. Slightly damp. They last only another minute, or so, before she asks him to guide himself inside her and he happily obeys.

Sex is far from new, to either of them, but they are both new to the intensity they can create together. It is a little too much for her, sometimes. The trust is there, but old habits are hard to break. Confronted with intense emotion, Ruth still shies away and Harry is little braver. Inches away, their natures don't change, but they soon discover that there is far more pleasure to be had shying towards each other, rather than away. So, they do that instead.

Every time she falters, he slows and coaxes her back towards him. Every time he starts to breathe a little frantically, she slows them. By the end, they are barely moving. Still, she shudders beneath him with the intensity of her climax. Her mouth opens, letting out the smallest half-moan, and Harry lets her determine the pace between them until her shaking stops. Then, as her breathing begins to slow, he lets himself move a little faster, lets his fingers curl a little tighter into her side.

Seven years, Harry thinks, as his lover slides one hand slowly across his lower back. Seven years to get to this point – to have Ruth rubbing slow circles on his skin, as he moves against her. It is nothing short of a miracle, really. A beautiful, mind-numbing, body-shaking sort of miracle, the sort he had long given up on finding.

Seven years...

A few quick strokes are enough to finish him off. The line between control and release has always been a thin one, for him, but it has never been thinner than with her. She has tipped him over the edge a few times, these past few weeks, when she is on top and showing him exactly how far from naive she really is. And she is far from naive. Body locked against his, she is beyond anything he had ever imagined; ten times as beautiful, a hundred times as wonderful against his skin.

Ruth...

Muscles tense and flex. She feels so good, a mix of relief and ecstasy, and he moans her name quietly against her neck, as he finds his release inside her. Her breathing speeds, momentarily, her back arching her up into him as he slows. For a few seconds, they still time in that place, trembling just a little against one another. Then, he lets his forehead fall forwards against her as his muscles slacken.

The world seems a little simpler, for a moment or two.

Thought begins to return slowly, as the dizzying adrenaline levels fade back. Sliding a forward, he leans more weight on his arms and tries to stop his leg from shaking. He wants to collapse, but she is still beneath him and, healed or not, he won't chance his weight on her scar. Her hands, at his back, still grip tightly and he does not want to make her let go – not yet. So, they remain joined, as the heat of his release cools between them. They stay until his shoulder is numb and he cannot stay any longer. Then, with an apologetic kiss to the side of her neck, he pulls out and rolls over onto his back, onto what has become _his_ side of the bed.

They lie still for a while, breathing heavily, not saying anything. His right hand is still loosely entwined in her hair, his knee brushing her thigh, their feet touching lightly. Their bodies are spent, exhausted and sweat-dampened, yet both of them are completely at peace in the moment. This new way of being together has never yet proved a disappointment, despite the years of expectation leading up to it.

Eventually, the cool night air drifting in through the open window becomes too cool and Ruth retrieves their duvet from where it had become entangled, at the bottom of the bed. Pulling it up around her shoulders, she flops back against the pillows and throws the other half over to him, giving a mock-frown when he asks her where her exhibitionist streak has disappeared to.

The warmth of the duvet is welcome, though Harry had note even realised he was cold. Her shifting closer, pressing up against his side, warms him further still. Turning her head, she places a kiss against his chest, and then lies back in his arm. It will go numb later, with her pressure there, but he does not truly mind. If she is comfortable, then so is he. He can move her once she is asleep.

They lie.

Warm.

She traces across his arm with beautiful hands. He has always thought she had beautiful hands – small with delicate fingertips. They move so gracefully, across his skin, a dancer's path along the dips and lines of his forearm. He watches her move them as she watches his skin, a softly serious expression on her face.

"Harry?"

"Ruth?"

She smiles, just a little, at his reply. She likes it when he says her name, always has done. He likes saying it, too, so he does it often. Clearing her throat, she turns her head up, resting her chin on his chest, meeting his eyes though he can see that there is a little shyness lurking in her. He frowns.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she gives a half-smile.

"Then-," he begins, but she interrupts quickly.

"Marry me."

Her words are breathless and almost as nervous as her eyes. They catch Harry by surprise, but it is not an unpleasant sort of surprise. Perhaps they catch Ruth by surprise also, because it takes her a good five seconds to clear her throat and continue.

"I thought I should ask, this time. I-," she pauses, eyes darting down before she forces them to rise again. "I thought it was only fair that I took a turn at the cripplingly uncertainty."Her mouth kinks into a half-smile, nervous but resolved.

Harry can't tear his eyes away from hers. This is Ruth – his beautiful, slightly awkward Ruth – asking him to marry her, her eyes shining bright blue through the darkness. Pleasure flashes through him, as the reality of his situation slowly sinks in. Ruth. Reaching out, he slides a hand around her sides, pulling her towards him as he rolls onto his side. She snakes one arm around the side of him, pulling herself close. Belly-to-belly.

"You had no need to feel uncertain," he whispers, into her hair.

"Thought I'd catch you afterwards, just in case."

He laughs softly and she joins in – her throat creating a beautiful, rich sound which he could never tire of. Dipping her head forwards, she places her lips against his chest, over his heart.

"Marry me." she whispers against him.

"Yes." His hands run up her back as her arms wrap around his sides. "Yes, Ruth" he tells to her softly, "always yes."

Her body relaxes into his. "Harry..."

His name, whispered from her lips. Nothing sweeter has ever reached his ears.

They lie for a while, content. When yawns begin to tickle them, drawing them closer to sleep, Ruth places one last kiss across his lips and rolls over, pressing her back against his belly. It's how she likes to sleep. It's one of those things he is infinitely glad he now knows about her.

Neck stretched over his outstretched arm, she faces the open window with a sigh. Outside the night is dark, the sky still clear of clouds. The stars are still visible, hanging over the dark rolling fields. This house of theirs is a sanctuary. Soon he will come and rest here, away from the horrors of the city and the stone walls of Thames House. Three more months. He wonders if he will make it – so much can happen, on the grid, in three months. Still, they are here tonight and she is warm against his side. The stars hang low in the sky.

Perhaps Ruth was right and he is more effusive under the starlight because, as it bathes them, he cannot help but whisper how much he loves her, against the back of her neck. Ruth just twines her fingers with his and squeezes.

"You're better at proposals than I am," he adds, running his hand down her smooth side, playing over the ridge of her scar with the edge of his thumb.

She just lets out a tiny laugh and squeezes again.

It has taken them so long to get here – too long, perhaps, but he does not regret it, in moments like these. Moments like these were built on years of self-restraint and self-denial. Moments like this were made by people who have a lot of history. And Harry and Ruth have a lot of history. They are made of history, and secrets. Curled together, they can feel the weight of the years, but they serve only to make what they have done here, tonight, more poignant.

Seven years seems a long time, in retrospect. In the future, however, it seems nowhere near enough. He is fifty-five. Some days, he feels his age - when old gunshot wounds ache, or his back aches, after too long sitting in one place - but if he is lucky, he has a good twenty or thirty years left in him. Let him spend it at her side, he thinks. Thirty years. He could do a lot with thirty years. Marry a beautiful woman, give her a home, a life, perhaps even a family – make her happy, as best a limited man can.

Pressing his nose into the back of her neck, he inhales her deeply. The night is late, the sky is dark, and his body is weary from the day and from her. His eyelids are heavy but now he does not fear his dreams so much. His darkest nightmares are those which involve losing her. Waking to find her by his side is comfort enough. Sometimes he wakes her by accident and she just curls closer. She never asks, never has to. She might never understand him, or know all the secrets he has to hide away, deep in his soul, but she trusts him and they fit.

Always have.

Her eyes are closed, now, her breathing even against his side. The stars are still bright, outside the window, however. So, Harry kisses her shoulder and tells her sleeping form that he loves her again.

.


End file.
